Of Elevators and Eyeliner

I wasn't ready for a strip club.

Not because I was shy or scared or morally opposed—okay, maybe a bit of that first one—but mostly because I'd just accidentally become a god-tier makeup artist and needed a second to process.

Instead of heading back out the door, I turned toward the elevators. I fished the white key card from my jacket's left breast pocket—room 1103—and pressed the button. The elevator dinged politely and the doors parted with a theatrical whoosh. I stepped inside, still trying to pretend this was normal.

It wasn't.

As the elevator hummed upward, I glanced at my reflection in the brushed metal walls and, experimentally, thought about contouring techniques.

My brain exploded.

Not literally, but damn. Suddenly I knew everything. Cheekbone sculpting, eye shadow blending, five kinds of false lashes, how to pick the right undertones for warm vs. cool skin. It was as if someone had uploaded the collective knowledge of every beauty guru on Earth directly into my skull.

My hand twitched. Without thinking, I moved it in the air, mimicking the motion of applying blush, and my fingers moved with perfect precision. My wrist even snapped at the end like I'd done it a thousand times before.

The elevator dinged.

I snapped back to reality.

Eleventh floor.

I stepped out and kept my gaze low. I didn't need to lock eyes with someone and learn how to dance on a pole or commune with forest spirits or hypnotize werewolves. Not today, anyway.

Out of the corner of my eye, I passed a woman who looked like she was half-human, half-squirrel—bushy tail, perked-up ears, big dark eyes. She nodded politely. I grunted a noncommittal sound and stared at the carpet.

Room 1103 wasn't far. I slid the key card into the door, and it clicked open smoothly.

Inside, the room was… average. Small. Tidy. A single bed, a low dresser, a chair by the window, and a suitcase perched neatly on a luggage rack. I stepped in and closed the door behind me. The hush was a relief.

I opened the suitcase. Clothes, mostly. Socks. Underwear. A toiletry bag. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Then I realized something weird.

I felt disappointed.

I was actually sad that there was no makeup. No brushes. No palettes. No glitter lipsticks. No jars of moisturizer with unpronounceable French names.

Wait—what?

I blinked and took a step back.

Where did that come from?

I shook my head hard, trying to clear it. "Okay. Okay. Focus." I sat on the bed and stared at the suitcase like it had betrayed me. "You're not a beauty blogger, Tooru. You’re not a stylist. You're a guy who died, got reincarnated, and accidentally downloaded Sephora into your brain."

I remembered something else.

Skill Points. I had 50 of them, apparently. But what were they? The voice had said they were rewarded for learning skills… but what were they for?

I started searching. First the suitcase. Then the jacket. Then the bathroom. Nothing. No pamphlet. No manual. No glowing orb of wisdom.

Finally, frustrated, I blurted, "How the hell am I supposed to learn about skill points?!"

Beep.

A soft tone, like a computer powering on.

And then, floating in the air in front of me, a glowing menu appeared. A user interface. Transparent. Neon-edged. Like a game HUD come to life.

USER MENU: SKILL POINTS

CURRENT POINTS: 50

Skill Points are the universal currency of personal mastery. Gain points by acquiring skills. Spend them to enhance, expand, or accelerate skill development.

Beneath that was a list. Most entries were blurred out—either locked or too advanced to comprehend. Only one category was fully readable:

EFFORTLESS ELEGANCE

The list beneath it was long, and—honestly—some of it was disturbing.

• Seductive Scent Design – 450 SP
• Battle-Ready Beauty – 800 SP
• Makeovers That Hypnotize Dragons – 1200 SP
• Transgender Glamour Form (Experimental) – 3000 SP
  (Note: May conflict with other traits.)

I scrolled down and finally found something affordable:

• PORTABLE SUPPLY – LEVEL 1 - COST: 50 SP
  Opens a small portal to a pocket-dimension storage shelf. Supplies user with a consistent stash of makeup basics (foundation, mascara, lip balm, brushes, etc.).
  Always accessible. Never runs out. Basics only. Upgrade for expanded inventory.

I stared at it.

Shook my head.

"When would I ever need that?"

Still, my fingers hovered over the glowing button, tempted to press it just in case. But no—I needed to figure out the why before I leaned into the how.

"User interface, go away," I muttered.

It beeped and obeyed.

The menu blinked out of existence like it had never been there.

I exhaled and stood. No answers here. But the hotel clerk had mentioned the Sisters of Indiscretion. Maybe someone there knew what was going on. Or maybe that version of me—the version that already existed here—had friends, contacts, a job… something.

I grabbed my key card, opened the door, and stepped into the hallway.

And this time, I didn't look anyone in the eye.